Page 9 of Dukes of Peril

I findSy in the kitchen, a gleaming white and stainless-steel monstrosity that looks like Martha Stewart should be behind the stove, not my brother. He’s searching the cabinets, opening and closing doors. He’d slam them if they could, but there’s nothing but the soft hiss of the cabinets easing back into place.

When my brother is at a loss for what to do, he falls back on three things: fighting, working, and cooking. There’s no one here to fight and all his books and journals are back home, so all that’s left is feeding us.

There are cans and boxes all over the counter. Random stuff. Pasta, canned olives, waffle mix. I push aside a can of chickpeas and sit at the barstool to watch him. The frantic energy of it all is weirdly soothing, like we’re back in high school, him tearing through Mom’s kitchen at six in the morning for a ridiculous pre-SAT meal.

He bends over, digging around a cabinet, grumbling, “How the fuck do you have a million-dollar home and not have a quality non-stick pan?”

“Remy’s sacked out on the couch, and Lavinia’s in the bedroom,” I say, ignoring his pan tirade. “I think they’ll be asleep for a while.” This whole thing where I play damage control to the people closest to me is a role that fits as awkwardly as the ring on my finger.

“Good,” he grunts, nodding to a package from the freezer. “Maybe there’ll be time to defrost some of this steak. Remy needs protein, and she needs iron.” He wrangles a frying pan out of the cabinet, but three other pots come flying out, clattering to the floor. “Goddamnfuckinghell!”

“Sy,” I say, aware that my brother is teetering on the edge of a tightrope. “Chill.”

His eyes snap to mine. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me to chill. Not after the last twenty-four hours.”

“They’re fine. We’re fine. Everyone made it out alive.”

Sy and I were at my storage locker the last time we spoke to Lavinia. She’d texted and said she was on her way. She never showed up. I know Lavinia hates the tracker, but I’ve never been more thankful—especially since one minute she was up on the cliffs, and then next she was lost in the abyss, a dot bobbing in the nether.

Across from me, Sy shoves the pots back into the cabinet. One slides out, clattering against the tile. I watch silently as he picks it up and beats it against the granite countertop. “Stay inside you motherfucking son of a whore! Just stay fucking inside!” He shoves it in one more time, slamming the door shut before it, or anything else, can fall out.

“They’re cold and banged up,” I say, reaffirming. “Nothing that can’t be fixed.”

He looks up at me, eyes rimmed in red. “The pots?”

I glare at him. Jesus. “Lavinia and Remy, you fucking basket-case.”

“But what if it couldn’t?” His words settle in the room. When he speaks again, it’s low and strained. “What if Maddox killed them? What if they jumped and didn’t make it? What if we couldn’t find them?” He pales, the set of his chin uncomfortably vulnerable. “What if it was like last time, when we lost him for months? When Tatedied.” His eyes flick to mine. “When you left.”

“None of that happened, big brother.” I jerk my head toward the bedroom. “They’re both alive. They’re safe. And trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”

That’s how I know everything is different. Back in South Side, I’d wanted to take Lavinia away. Now, I want to stand my ground to keep what I’ve got. Sy doesn’t know that, though. He stands there, frying pan in his hand, looking lost and worried and completely overwhelmed. If he looked like this after Tate died, then I didn’t see it, because he’s right. I left. Sure, I had a purpose–a mission–but that’s not what he saw. For the first time, I feel the bloom of regret in my chest for it. If I’d told him why I was going to work for Daniel Payne…

Well, he would have followed me into the filth of South Side.

He would have fought with me about it. He would have said it was a stupid plan–and he wouldn’t have been wrong–but in the end, he would have come with me, because that’s just who Sy is. For better or for worse, even when I’m a complete shit who doesn’t deserve it, he’s looked out for me. Cleaned up my messes. Let me back in.

Remy wasn’t wrong before. For three years, and possibly even longer than that, I’ve been the unbearable weight around my brother’s neck.

I step around the counter and wrench the frying pan from him.

“What the—”

I haul him into an aggressive, crushing embrace. A real hug. A bear hug. ABruinhug.

He stiffens.

“I’m sorry I left last time,” I say into his shoulder. “It was selfish, but I wasn’t doing it to be a dick. I had to do something, Sy, or I would have gone fucking crazy.”

He slowly returns the hug, giving my shoulder a firm pat. “Yeah.” He sighs, heaving his other arm around my shoulders, palm tight on the back of my neck. “I know, Nicky.”

Hearing him say my name like that–Nicky, without the spite or sarcasm, just like the old days–feels like something slotting into place. It’s a synchrony I thought we’d regained when I became a Duke, but I was wrong. I see that now. It’s always been off, slightly off-kilter, soured. A tension in my back, older than my flame for Lavinia, suddenly unwinds, falling away at the sound of it.

Gruffly, I confess, “I really fucking missed you when I was away, you know.”

“Jesus, Nicky.” Sy’s voice sounds thick, like there’s a lump in his throat, and he gives the side of my head a hard slap. “I didn’t miss you at all, you gigantic pain in my ass.”

Snorting, I jab my fist into his side and he feints left, only to dart forward and put me into an abrupt headlock. “Hey, you fucker!” I kick at his feet, plant my elbow into his ribs, and he digs his knuckles into the top of my head. The scuffle is quick and painful, just like they should be, but we’re both visibly fighting back laughter, struggling to keep our scowls in place as we land playful slaps and sloppy punches.

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